


[Abandoned WIP] Love Amongst the Ruins

by istia



Series: Abandoned WIP [2]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Hurt Ray Doyle, Hurt William Bodie, M/M, POV William Bodie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 20:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: In the aftermath of a devastating injury, Bodie needs help and finds it in an unlikely place.





	[Abandoned WIP] Love Amongst the Ruins

The sun was like a huge lemon squashed flat against the edge of the sky, except with bloody edges all around it. It was pretty, though, as if lemons had real red blood inside them, like people, instead of just juice that looked like water. It would be even better if the juice were red and tasted as pretty as it looked, not like blood but like something nice. Like the way ketchup looked on Mrs Wilson's Yorkshire pud, and how it made everything taste just right. Mr McAfee always said that ketchup did a world of good for Mrs Wilson's cooking.

A little of the shine went out of the gloaming as Bodie thought of Mr McAfee. Mouth drooping, he leant on the post at the side of the towpath and wondered if Mr McAfee might be awake yet, and if he could see the way those clouds over to the left of the lemon looked just like vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce running over it. Mr McAfee liked vanilla ice cream best, just like Bodie did. When the ice cream van came, he always flipped Bodie a coin and Bodie would get them both the same. If Miss Walsh was there, though, you had to ask because she always wanted something different. Mr McAfee said Miss Walsh had multi-something tastes, which meant she couldn't make up her mind. Miss Walsh thumped Mr McAfee's arm when he said that and told him to behave himself. Bodie, though, couldn't help laughing because Mr McAfee's big booming laugh just made you have to laugh, too, and Miss Walsh shook her head and said they were as bad as each other, and Mr McAfee shouldn't be leading the boy astray.

Bodie wished, with a fierceness that made his heart pound hard, that Mr McAfee were there to lead him astray some more, with his big laugh and his deep voice and the wrinkly maps that appeared all around his eyes and his mouth when he smiled. They reminded Bodie of the valleys and the rivers on the map Miss Walsh had shown him before she went away on her walking tour in the Peak District for a whole fortnight. He thought sometimes that maybe it might be possible to follow that map on Mr McAfee's face and get right to the heart of him, right to the place where that big joyful laughter came from.

But he hadn't looked joyful when Bodie had found him in the kitchen, lying crumbled up like an old paper bag thrown onto the flagstones with the Brown Betty smashed beside him and tea puddled around him and soaking into his white T-shirt. Bodie hadn't known what to do when Mr McAfee wouldn't wake up, wouldn't open his eyes even when Bodie shook him, and kept breathing funny, too, like he'd run a long way except that Mr McAfee never ran anywhere hard. All Bodie could think for long blinding minutes was how it must have made a godawful noise when the teapot broke and it must have been that crash that woke him in the boxroom at the back of the church, where Mr McAfee let him sleep if he didn't have anywhere else to go, which mostly he hadn't _before_. He didn't know what to do because Mr McAfee was going to get cold lying on the floor in just his underwear.

Bodie was never sure how long it was before he remembered Miss Walsh through the haze of confusion and the mounting ache in his head. He'd stumbled to his feet and lurched into the study, his legs feeling like planks. The headache was half-blinding him by the time he found the number in Mr McAfee's telephone book, written in neat, small writing, and it had seemed to take a long time before he managed to find all the numbers on the dial. And then the phone had rung for ages and ages, and Bodie had rubbed at his forehead and wondered what he should do if Miss Walsh didn't answer, if maybe she was still away, which he knew she wasn't, but maybe she'd gone away somewhere again and not told him. Or maybe he'd forgotten, because sometimes he did forget things without meaning to.

When she had at last answered, he'd only been able to stumble out words, his tongue like a stick of wood, too, but she'd said it would be all right, she was coming, she was on her way.

He'd managed to get back to Mr McAfee and spread a blanket over him, Bodie's own blanket that Mr McAfee had said was his, that he could even take with him if he wanted when he left. Bodie had laid it over the sad, crumpled figure and tried to push the puddle of tea away with his hand, but that hadn't worked so he'd had to leave it because he couldn't think what else to do. His head was full of shooting stars, all noise and glare. It made him think of bad things: of a terrifying noise and the whole world shaking; of screams that went on and on and a stink in his nostrils of fear and blood and burning flesh. He'd closed his eyes and rubbed and rubbed at his head, thinking hard instead about how cross Mr McAfee was going to be when he found out everyone had seen him in his funny underpants with candy canes all over them.

Bodie blinked back the wetness in his eyes and took a last look at the sky, which wasn't lemons and blood any more, but darkened to treacle shot through with veins of gold. _Red sky at night, sailor's delight_. It should be a nice day tomorrow, and maybe Mr McAfee would wake up and see the sun and smile.

Bodie turned and hurried down the path towards Shadwell. The barrows were shutting up as he entered the market, and he walked more quickly, threading his way familiarly through the haphazard avenues lit uncertainly with lights dotted about in no set pattern. He could smell the distinctive odour of overripe fruit before he reached the greengrocer's area, and he smiled with relief when he saw the striped canopy over Mr Jansen's barrow was just being lowered. Sweet happiness curled through him, light and singing, for the first time since he'd found Mr McAfee two days ago, as he shouldered aside slight old Mr Jansen and took the pole from him, looking across into wide eyes across from him that were smokey and mysterious in the dim light.

"Ah, Bodie, that's a good lad," the old man said in his raspy voice, rubbing at his shoulder where he got aches. "Thought we weren't going to see you tonight."

"Mr McAfee's in hospital," Bodie said, looking steadily into the eyes opposite him as the two of them folded the canopy with practiced ease.

"Is he then? What happened to the old coot?" Mr Jansen was kind enough, but growly with it; you had to get used to him, that was all.

"Miss Walsh said he had a stroke, but she didn't say of what. She said something went wrong in his head. I think maybe he slipped on the tea and hit his head. The tea was all over the floor. I couldn't stop it soaking his shirt."

"Ah, now, that's a shame, that is. A stubborn old fool, that Vicar, but a good man in these parts. He helped my Jacky when he got out of nick when nobody else wanted owt to do with him. Mr McAfee'll be missed."

Bodie froze as they let the wooden cover gently down over the fruit in the barrow, and said, "He's not going anywhere, though. He's just in hospital for a bit, like I was after I hurt my head. He'll get better, same's me, and come back. He has to come back. He has to look after St Jude's. Miss Walsh never said he was going anywhere."

A warm hand brushed up his back and squeezed his shoulder for a moment, and Bodie felt the clamouring rush of panic recede at the familiar scent of sweat and Pears soap before it moved away. As his breathing quietened, he heard Mr Jansen's gravelly voice making reassuring noises from a few feet away, but Bodie fastened his eyes on the slim figure pushing the barrow into the warehouse. He felt abandoned and anchorless until the long-legged presence was beside him again, warm and solid and real, a pointy shoulder pushing against his own as the other man reached out a bare, sinewy arm and accepted the note Mr Jansen held out.

"Ta, Jan. See you on Tuesday. Come on, mate."

"Good night, Mr Jansen."

"Aye, g'night, lad. Take care of yourself. Let us know how the Vicar does, won't you?"

"Yeah, 'course. I'll be back on Tuesday. Maybe Mr McAfee'll be home by then. I think maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and everything'll be fine."

"Bodie!"

He gave Mr Jansen a quick last grin and ran after the imperious figure striding away. As he settled into step beside him, the flare of a match lit the odd face with an eerie light that played with the planes and hollows just the way Bodie's fingers liked to. Light highlighted the sculpted mouth clamped around a cigarette, then winked out, leaving only the tiny red glow of the cigarette itself. Bodie felt shored up with happiness, and threw his arm across the broad shoulders in an impulsive, exuberant hug.

"Oof. Don't dislocate my shoulder, you."

"Sorry." Bodie loosened his grip a tad, but knew better than to take the complaint seriously.

"No, you're not. Hopeless case, you are. Don't know why I ever let myself get saddled with you. Do I need a big lummox following me everywhere, I ask you?"

"Yes, you do," Bodie said, with decision. "Ray, d'you've money for some supper? Only Mr McAfee hasn't paid me yet for helping out in the Mustard Seed, and Miss Walsh's kind of upset. Mr Cowley's maybe coming tomorrow, and he always lets me wash his car, but I'm starving now."

"What a pathetic routine," his companion said, sourly. "You don't think that face works on me, do you? Can't see it in the dark, but I know what you're doing with your mouth all pouty and those eyes all puppy-doggish."

"Am not--"

"But it so happens we're in luck. I had a good day yesterday, made a mint. This dry weather's a boon for the diligent shoeblack; dust coating all those lace-ups and brogues and court shoes, and we can't have that, can we? I made nine quid! And old Jan gave me a tenner, so we're well away." He broke off to cough, then hawked into the gutter before flicking the glowing butt away; Bodie tightened his arm against the tremble in the slim form. When Doyle spoke again, there was an alarming note of exhaustion in his voice. "We'll p-pick something up near the Towers, so it'll be warm when we get home. What d'you fancy? No, d-don't tell me--"

"Fish'n'chips, silly."

"--b-because I know already it's going to be Sal's lard-and-grease d-delights. What am I supposed to do with you, eh? You're just not amenable to change, Bodie. I'm w-wasting my p-pearls on you."

Taking advantage of a black spot where a street standard was broken, Bodie pulled the tense man into the protection of a doorway and stopped the stuttering voice with his own mouth. In moments, he had the satisfaction of feeling Doyle's body slump tiredly and trustingly against him, and he lifted his mouth and laid it tenderly into the dusty curls as his hands soothed the restless figure into a momentary peacefulness.

"Not everything's wasted," he whispered into a curl-covered ear, and felt the face move into a smile where it pressed against his neck.

"I reckon not." Doyle spoke in a husky voice as he pulled away. "Come on, then, let's get you fed or I won't be able to sleep for the complaints. Both the verbal and the gastrointestinal. More trouble than you're worth."

"No, I'm not." Bodie was contentedly aware that when Doyle said things he couldn't understand, none of it was anything to worry about.

When Doyle wanted him to understand, he made sure that Bodie did. Very direct, Doyle was, and not just with Bodie. Got him into all sorts of trouble. It would be better when Bodie could be around all the time to mind him; problem was to make Doyle see that. But Bodie was working on it; he wouldn't give up, no matter what Doyle said. He could just have another think if he really believed Bodie bought all that guff about not needing anyone, thank you very much. Not that it paid to say as much! No, but the tortoise's way was the best. _Slow and certain wins the race._ Mr McAfee had told him that story a long time ago when Bodie first met him, and Bodie had never forgotten. Only when he'd met Doyle had Bodie realised the story could be about more than his own slowness in doing and learning things.

"You're quiet," Doyle said, as he shouldered his way almost an hour later through the warped, ill-fitting door into the draughty room he, for the moment, called home. "Worrying about the Vicar?"

Bodie set the hot, fragrant bundles on the cracked linoleum work-top and nodded his head. The pulse was throbbing in his temple again, and he rubbed it mutely, wishing he'd remembered to bring his tablets. Doyle was there abruptly, wrapping him in warm strength, and he clutched at the hard body, not ever wanting to be let go of.

"When'd it happen?" Doyle's voice was a thread of softness against his hurting head, as comforting as a feather pillow, better than any tablets.

"Wednesday. It was real early in the morning. He was in his underwear. He looked so small, like." Bodie choked as tears welled up in him, horrified at his weakness.

Doyle's grip tightened. "I know. It's all right, mate. It'll b-be all right. Come on, let's get some f-food into you before it gets cold and all my hard-earned money's gone to waste."

Bodie couldn't bear to lose that bodily warmth quite yet, though, and clung on, saying, ashamed but determined in his need, "Can I stay tonight?"

"Of course you can. I'm not going to put you out on the street like a dog, am I? Unless you snore, of course. Go on, get the k-ketchup while I serve up our feast; what's lard-and-grease without condiments, eh?"

"You're the one that snores, though." Bodie wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he turned to the cupboard to raid the cache of little stolen packets of Heinz's best.

"So you claim," Doyle said, dismissively, as they sat down side-by-side on the ratty sofa to eat one large and one medium portion of cod and chips out of greasy newsprint spattered with droplets of ketchup the colour of blood.

:::::::

George Cowley took another sip of the Irish whiskey and grimaced. Trust Iain McAfee not to be able to tell the difference between this rot and good, decent Scotch--or care, more to the point. It'd probably been a gift from a parishioner, at any rate. It would never occur to Iain to waste good money on a mere palate-pleasing beverage. Cowley set the tumbler down with a sigh onto the tin tray atop the battered rosewood bureau. He glanced around himself, feeling an untowards emptiness. The small, rather plain room, lined with cheap, well-used paperbacks, seemed as warm as usual, the gas fire alight, yet it was as though there were the chill of a vacuum where something vital was missing. As though the room itself were in mourning for a missing essence that might never return.

Fanciful old goat, he chided himself, and picked up the musty-smelling paperback lying beside the drinks tray. _Night_ by Elie Wiesel. Iain still hadn't lost that fascination of his with the War, then. Not that it was a surprise. An aggressively peace-loving man, Iain McAfee had been marked deep in his soul by his experiences at the Front. He'd been a dedicated, impassioned chaplain in Cowley's unit for eight months in 1943, and had later gone on to serve in some of the worst fighting in the Italian campaign. He'd also been amongst a support unit sent to assist the survivors of Majdanek, a duty for which he'd volunteered; nay, more than volunteered, but rather demanded he be included in the painful business.

Cowley smiled sadly, hefting the slim, worn book, which appeared--from the rubber stamp on the torn frontispiece--to have been bought from an Oxfam shop. Iain'd been a firebrand in those days, and the fiery spirit in him hadn't dimmed a bit with age. The two of them had kept in touch, each valuing a companion with whom he could share a wickedly good, no-holds-barred argument, even though for many years, their contact had been confined to letters, and those intermittent according to the time each could spare. Like an ongoing chess game, however, their friendship had persisted with each new, provocative move no matter how much time separated their personal encounters.

Only in the past few years, with both of them settled in London, had they resumed meeting in person. Still intermittently at first--Cowley enjoyed frittering away an afternoon on the links when he had a rare day free, a flightiness in him that Iain abhorred--but settling eventually into bi-monthly get-togethers at Cowley's club or in Iain's worn but snug sitting room, bar no interruptions from their respective schedules. A few other friends had become mutual acquaintances, one in particular becoming a regular at their spirited meetings.

A heavy footstep heralded the ponderous arrival of Mrs Wilson, doughty housekeeper and formidable keeper of morality at St Jude's Lowgate. Summoning the pasty grimace George Cowley used to express polite if cool toleration of the narrow- and dull-minded, he turned to greet her.

"Dinner smells delicious, Mrs Wilson. As always," he said, with a smooth suavity that masked his revulsion to the aura of stale sweat she carried with her everywhere.

"Be ruined if she don't turn up soon," Mrs Wilson opined, with an expression that forecast the end of the world.

"I'm sure that Miss Walsh will be along shortly. And what about the lad--Bodie? I've not seen him about tonight. Will he be joining us?"

"And how I'm like to know that, I couldn't say. Never tells me when he's coming and going, does he, though it's going mostly these days, I must say. Seen him less and less since he took up with that scruff."

"I see. He's made a friend in the area, then? That must be pleasant for him."

"If you want to call him a 'friend', you can, I reckon, and no skin off my nose. But if you want my candied opinion, Mr Cowley, it's not being a friend the likes of that one'll be wanting from a good-looking lad like our Bodie, not in this world. And I won't be saying more on the matter as it's not my business, and I hopes I know how to hold my tongue. But mark my words: that scruff'll do a harm to our Bodie, and so I told Mr McAfee, for all the good it done."

With a sniff, she turned and stomped from the room, leaving behind a covered casserole and her distinctive scent. Cowley took up the tumbler and swallowed a fiery mouthful of appalling whiskey that made his eyes water and his throat clench, but at least deadened his olfactory nerves.

Further heavy-footed trips delivered covered bowls of clashing odours into the room. Cowley ignominiously buried himself in Iain's book to avoid having to acknowledge the gloomy muttered prognostications of ruination that accompanied this weighty process of serving. Relief flowered when he heard the kitchen bell tinkle, followed by light steps and a fresh, breezy presence that filled the room with some of the life that had ghosted away.

"George." A peck on his cheek, but a strong embrace that he returned in communion of their shared grief.

"You're looking tired, Elizabeth." Cowley held her at arms' length for a moment before letting her go. "You've been spending a lot of time at the hospital, I imagine."

"Yes. Just in case he wakes, which seems increasingly unlikely. At least, that he will awaken with any kind of mental competency."

"Aye. I spoke to Dr Mbasi today."

They sat down to eat in easy quiet, sharing feelings neither needed to express. Only when they'd finished eating and were settled in the lumpy but comfortable armchairs on either side of the fire did Elizabeth speak again.

"It's good of you to spare the time here, George. It shouldn't be for much longer, but if there's no one here to take over, I'm afraid the Church will simply send in a clean broom that will possibly sweep away all that Iain worked so long and hard to build up."

"Surely not? The parish is small, but it provides vital services for the poor in this area."

"The Church, though--or the official to whom I spoke, at any rate, and 'officious' is certainly the word for him!--is concerned with the viability of the parish. It's deemed too small, I gather, to support a full-time vicar in residence, and it can't be denied that this old building needs a good deal of money spent on it; even routine maintenance has been neglected. The proposal being considered is that the curate at St Margaret's will provide services once every Sunday, and that will be the extent of church activity. And even that much will be only an interim measure to encourage the parishioners to change their affiliation to St Margaret's so this building and the land can be sold. Iain was allowed to stay on only through sheer force of will, I suspect. Or possibly because he simply refused to leave."

They shared a brief, sad smile. Elizabeth sipped at her tea and made a face. Retrieving her bag from the floor, she pulled out a silver flask and flourished it conspiratorially.

"Ah, Elizabeth, you're a gem." Cowley sighed, accepting the glass of Talisker's with alacrity.

"Don't I know it." She shook her grey head ruefully. "I'm plenty old enough to have learnt the way to a Scotsman's heart!" Settling down again, she sobered. "I made a start on the accounts, but I didn't get far as I wanted to be on hand at the hospital, just in case. My quick perusal suggested that the Mustard Seed is almost self-supporting. The lease on the rooms next door has another twenty-two months left. Iain has been feeding most of his incumbent's pay into it, of course, and that will be the sticking-point if the lunch club is to continue. More community support will be needed to make it self-sufficient and thereby able to continue if the Church closes St Jude's Lowgate entirely, as they are presently threatening."

"Aye, but is there a point in trying to save the Mustard Seed without Iain to head it? It's barely held its own for years, as I understand it. Without the Church's backing--albeit through Iain's pocket, rather than directly--I'm not sure if it can survive."

"That's what we'll need to decide, George: whether it can be viable as an organisation on its own. Josie O'Hanlon has been doing a good job of assisting Iain in running the place; I think that she might just be able to keep it up. She has her own brand of fieriness. I doubt, though, that she would be up to the bookkeeping end of things."

"Ach, I've told Iain for two years at least that he ought to have an accountant looking after the finances. It may be possible to find someone willing to take the portfolio as a charitable act, or perhaps to find a firm willing to spread the work between their staff _pro bono_. It's a small enough enterprise. I'll see what I can do. I know a couple of people I can contact."

After they'd pored over the books together--neatly and precisely kept in Iain's small, black print--they settled for a nightcap from Elizabeth's flask. The shabby curtains were drawn against a clear, cool autumn evening, which somehow made the room seem even bleaker.

"It's eerily quiet here without Iain," Elizabeth said. "Completely unnatural in any place used to being filled with his presence!"

"And the lad, too," Cowley said, remembering. "Bodie. Mrs Wilson seems to think he's fallen in with bad company."

"Ah, yes, Mrs Wilson's resoundingly acute judgement of character." Elizabeth barely smiled before saying, sombrely, "I don't know. I haven't seen much of William myself in the past few weeks with my being away on holiday and then caught up in various other preoccupations. I'm afraid I haven't even had a chance to talk to him properly since he found Iain and rang me. He was in quite a state--not surprisingly--but I've spent all of my spare time at the hospital. That may have been a mistake. I was actually hoping that he would be home tonight."

"Has Iain said anything about this fellow Bodie has met?"

"He was a bit concerned, I believe, but mostly because he hadn't yet been able to meet him in person. He asked William to bring the lad around, but it seems he's shy. Mrs Wilson is the only one to have actually seen this Doyle; he works occasionally at the market in Shadwell, I believe. All William will say--with a huge beam on his face, the dear boy--is that's Doyle's 'grand'. I don't know, George. And what's to become of William, for that matter, if Iain doesn't recover?"

"A sad case. That nasty hostage business in Armagh eighteen months or so ago, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's right, near Keady. Five of the hostages killed, a number of British troops maimed, and one crack SAS sergeant left with a metal plate in his head and the mentality of a child. He has no family, so the only options for him seem to be the streets or an institution. It was sheer luck that he wandered down here and found his way to Iain, but what's to happen to him now, I don't know. If this Doyle were on the up-and-up, then it might be the ideal solution."

"Doyle, you say? I'll run him through the computers and see if anything turns up."

"'Ray', William calls him. I have no idea if there's a middle name. Mrs Wilson's description is unlikely to be reliable other than an indication that he's about William's age and has curly brown hair."

Cowley rubbed at the smudge of his fingerprint on the tumbler and spoke in a quiet voice. "Mrs Wilson appears to have the idea that this Doyle is...exploiting Bodie. Taking advantage of him."

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth said, "a sexual piranha. Well, who's to say? She might be right. William is a very attractive young man, and frighteningly innocent; he might indeed not be safe on his own. I've half-thought of taking him in myself, as a general maintenance man, give him a wage. I certainly have enough room. I'd rather that than see him trying to survive on the streets, but it would be a lifelong responsibility, and my life is liable to be a good deal shorter than William's. Other than the headaches he suffers, he's a very fit young man of only twenty-seven." She shook her head. "Not to mention a certain restlessness in him that makes me doubt if he could settle down to the placid existence I would offer him. I'm not at all sure that I'm what that lad needs."

:::::::

Nothing in the world, not even a bowlful of rainbow-coloured trifle covered with custard, was as pretty as Doyle was when he looked up at Bodie from the bed with his face all screwed up with feelings. Bodie ducked his head to lick at the hard nub of a nipple as he pressed another finger into Doyle's body, then looked up quickly so he could catch the expression flooding every part of the expressive face. Unable to stop himself, he nuzzled at Doyle's open mouth, and was rewarded with a groan he could take into himself for his very own. Moving himself farther over Doyle's sprawled body, Bodie thrust helplessly, rubbing his hardness against a tense, muscled thigh. He wouldn't be able to last, he knew it. It was always the same the first night he was with Doyle after a pair of days apart.

He placed his other hand on Doyle's own lovely hardness, squeezing the way Doyle had shown him. At the same time, he moved his fingers in that warm, tight place, that special place where only special people were allowed to touch. Where only Bodie was allowed to touch on Doyle, and only Doyle on Bodie, because they were the special people.

"Special," Bodie breathed into Doyle's beautiful mouth in return for the groan, and Doyle's tongue flicked at his lip in thanks.

Bodie felt it happening then, surging up from inside the heart of him to fill him and overflow so Doyle could know just how special he was to Bodie. Bodie's warm wetness splashed between them and, as his fingers jerked inside Doyle's body, Doyle's wetness splashed them, too. They lay pressed together like one single person filled with an aching gladness blossoming from their mingled seed.

The afterwards was always the best, though. Well, as good, anyroad. When he could gather his breath and gather his strength and gather Doyle into his arms, bringing Doyle as close as possible to himself and holding him as tightly as Bodie wanted to do always. Hold him so tight no one could threaten Doyle, no one would even be able to get near him because Bodie was there, just enough wider to cover the slimmer man and keep him safe, just enough stronger to keep away all the evils.

"Bodie, ease up, you prat! You're smothering me."

"No, I'm not." Bodie spoke comfortably, pressing a kiss to the sweaty cheekbone that jutted like the front of a ship.

After a bit of a scuffle, a breathless Doyle had them rearranged to his satisfaction and settled his head onto Bodie's shoulder, his greenish eyes slipping shut.

"You're special," Bodie whispered, solemn with the pronouncement, weighty with his overflowing feelings.

"Hm-hmm. You, too, mate. I'm dying for a smoke. Fetch us the fags, there's a lad."

"No."

"Bodie--"

"You said you were going to stop. Mr McAfee says they're real bad for you. Anyway, I know they make you cough."

"You don't know a damn thing! And it's none of Mr Fucking McAfee's business what I do! Of all the nerve--"

His voice trailed off as Bodie turned his face away. For a moment, there was stillness in the room, eerie and scary. Doyle's hand, though, reached out in the next moment to touch Bodie's shoulder softly, rubbing the scar there that happened the same time as he hurt his head.

"Sorry, mate; didn't mean that."

Bodie knew that Doyle had, but didn't say anything because he also knew Doyle no longer meant it. Doyle was like that. He got all passionate and said things, and the next minute he was sorry. He could be sorrier than anyone Bodie had ever known, so even though he could also be meaner than anyone else, it was his sorry part that mattered. He was sorry for much longer than he was ever mean.

He watched as Doyle walked across the room, bare and silvered in the shine from the lights at Liverpool Street station coming in the uncurtained window, and too special for words. Bodie felt choked with such a clutch of feelings that he knew he'd never sort them all out. Overwhelmed with them, he couldn't just lie there looking. He pushed himself from the bed and crossed the room until his cooling nakedness brushed against Doyle's, fitting himself against Doyle's bony back. Bodie watched with distress as Doyle lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, leaning his weight back against Bodie with the simplicity of utter trust.

Bodie closed his arms around the softly-haired chest, and shut his eyes.

"You shouldn't," he whispered, speaking from the frustration of pain and helplessness, and not even sure if he wanted Doyle to hear. "You shouldn't," he whispered, hurtfully. "You promised."

"Oh, for fuck's sake! I never promised anything."

Doyle pulled away and stomped around the room, kicking with his bare toes at the sofa and their heaps of clothes and the mattress on the floor. He raked one hand through his curls while the other lifted the Woodbine to his mouth for quick, desperate puffs.

"Yes, you did," Bodie said, doggedly. "You promised you'd stop after you finished your last packet."

Doyle swung around, staring at him from the shadowed far corner of the room. Bodie quaked, but held his ground. He had to try even if it made Doyle tell him to get out. He just had to because, as small as the Vicar had looked when he got hurt, Doyle would look even smaller if anything happened to him.

"You're not my sodding keeper!"

Bodie couldn't say anything. He could just watch the tempest he'd unleashed as it prowled the room. Could only wait watchfully as the naked figure surged to his side, snatching up the crumbled cigarette packet and shaking it under Bodie's nose.

"I haven't reached the end of the packet, have I? So I dunno--"

"That's a new packet; it's not the one you had last week!" The unfairness goaded him into quick, angry words. "I know I'm stupid, Ray, but I'm not crazy and I'm not blind!"

He flinched at the deep silence that followed. He closed his eyes, feeling the throb of frustration mounting in his head. He ground the heels of both hands into his eyes as the feeling of utter helplessness crashed over him like a drowning tide.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Doyle shouted.

A frenzy of movement brought Bodie's eyes open in time to see Doyle tearing the few remaining cigarettes and the crumpled packet itself into bits over the rusted bucket he used as a toilet when it was raining too hard to go outside. When his frantic tearing was done, the room became very still. Doyle stayed leaning over the bucket, his hands pressed against his thighs making a silvery triangle like those places in Egypt Mr McAfee had shown him in a book. Bodie could see a tremour in Doyle's slim form, and felt a matching tiredness that made his own muscles ache.

Bodie gathered Doyle up with one strong arm and laid them both down. He soothed the trembling body with his hands and his lips, covering both of them with the blanket.

"You're special; you're so special." He murmured the words, not knowing what else to do.

And then, as the trembling continued: "You can't stay here all winter. It's going to be too col--"

"Don't start on that again, Bodie. Just...don't. I've had enough."

Bodie reckoned they both had and tried to blink the sadness away. Unable to look after Doyle in any other way, Bodie rubbed his hands over Doyle's chilled back and arms until Doyle finally dozed off, as warm and safe as Bodie could make him, and Bodie followed him into exhausted sleep.

Only to awaken a confusing amount of time later to feel Doyle thrashing against him. Bodie turned over and reached out, only to be fought off by flailing arms. Doyle was muttering to himself and struggling up out of the blanket, which had got wrapped around his hips and was holding him prisoner.

"Let me go, l-let me go!" Doyle gasped.

Bodie cringed at the panicked fear in his voice and quickly freed Doyle, who scrambled gracelessly to his feet and staggered to the wall. Pressing against it, Doyle rubbed his hand up and down the peeling paper. As his hand rubbed more urgently and his fingernails scraped, white flakes showered onto him, glimmering in the moonlight, and it would have been a pretty sight if it hadn't been so awful.

Bodie pressed himself to his feet and stood, eyes set on Doyle. Waiting.

Doyle muttered to himself. Or not to himself, maybe. To Them, maybe. Bodie could only watch, his hands clenched at his sides, fear and cold prickling his skin into gooseflesh. Doyle pushed away from the wall and stumbled across the room, colliding with the sofa so heavily that he fell across the back.

Bodie took a step forward.

Doyle pushed himself along the back of the sofa, his fine hands spreading and clenching convulsively. He looked like a blind man Bodie had seen once in the market who'd dropped his cane and scrabbled along the ground in just that jerky way, unable to find his stick although it lay only inches from his hands.

Bodie could hear some of Doyle's muttering now: "Need it, need it, where...no, no...get away...where...I won't, don't, I won't--"

Bodie bit his trembling lip, willing himself not to cry. He wanted Mr McAfee to come back and he wanted Doyle to be okay, but crying wouldn't make things better. Crying never made the hurt in his head go away or the flashes of things he couldn't quite remember sear his mind any the less.

Maybe nothing in the world could make things better; Doyle said so sometimes, when _They_ were pushing at him more than usual. He didn't have to listen to Doyle, though, not the way Doyle listened to Them. Doyle was smarter than he was, but Doyle needed him. Doyle wouldn't admit it, not yet, but he did so need Bodie, anyhow. Bodie wouldn't cry because he had to be ready to help Doyle soon as he saw the way to do it. He bit his lip until blood pooled on his tongue and the tears went away.

He stood straight, a knight waiting steadfast against the gathering darkness.

 _The Red Cross Knight came pricking, pricking on the plain._ He thought the mighty words fiercely at Them, hearing the comforting echo of Mr McAfee's deep voice that made Bodie feel strong and less alone.

Doyle stumbled down to one knee, clinging to the end of the sofa where the rats had made a hole and stuffing was hanging out like pale guts. Doyle bowed over, his slim body shaking, and banged his head against the back of the sofa, each bang matched with a moaned word.

"Stop...shut up...need...go away...no, no, find it...find...manu--"

Bodie knew what was needed then, and leaped to search the spare, small room. He found the carrier bag in a corner of the kitchen area and snatched it up. Scrabbling through the brushes and tins of blacking, his hand closed on a tattered paperback, and he drew it out with a surge of triumph.

He pulled Doyle away from the sofa, holding him close in one arm, and pressed Doyle's hand physically around the book.

"The Manual, Ray. Here's the Manual."

Doyle took a moment to recognise the feel of the book in his fingers, and then his eyes dropped to it and they regained some focus. He took it in both hands and feverishly opened it, turning pages rapidly until he found his place--the page he'd reached, Bodie thought, when Doyle'd needed its magic last time. Holding the book in one hand, Doyle traced a trembling fingertip down the printed lines on the page until he found the exact spot. His finger slowed, then, pausing on each word as his lips silently formed them, speaking the spell that would make Them go away, back into their dark hole.

Doyle's body slumped as he sank all his concentration into the magic words. Bodie caught him and eased them both down to sit on the cold floorboards, leaning his back against the sofa and cradling Doyle. He watched as the dirty finger with its ragged, bitten nail, moved slowly but steadily across and down the lines of print one after another, Doyle's mouth moving constantly without making a sound, the book held close to his bent face so he could see the page in the dimness. Bodie watched for as long as he could bear, then hid his eyes in Doyle's tangled curls.

It sometimes took a long time for Doyle to defeat Them; They were stronger sometimes than They were at other times. Bodie just had to keep Doyle safe and warm until the battle was over, and then Doyle would be his again. The Enemy was strong and cruel and terrible, but They couldn't win when Doyle and he fought together, Bodie knew the truth of that simple fact better than he could sometimes keep his own string of names straight. He and Doyle together were the best and nothing could defeat them when they fought side-by-side.

Bodie flung his own ferocious, silent denial at the Enemy:

_The Red Cross Knight came pricking, pricking on the plain, and forth into the darksome hole he went._

:::::::

The Club was a civilised, quiet haven that George Cowley never failed to appreciate as a retreat from the rigours of being Controller of CI5. With a fine malt on his tongue and good company by his side, he consciously relaxed into the comfortable chair and allowed peacefulness to seep into his aching bones. A hectic four days had ensued after Stuart had reported the imminent arrival of a cell of fringe terrorists from the Middle East with an agenda that included a variety of potential targets. It was mop-up now. Oh, it was possible that one or two small fry had slipped through, but Cowley was confident his lads would pick up the trail soon; the minor contacts would undoubtedly be attempting to flee the country as soon as possible. His lads were a good bunch; aye, and the lasses, too. For the moment, it was possible to relax between crises.

He looked up from contemplation of his whisky at a small sound from Elizabeth seated across from him.

"Oh, George." She sighed and put the papers down on the polished marquetry table. "It is him, I suppose? No chance of a mistake?"

"I showed the photograph to Mrs Wilson. Doyle is a common name, and a number of Raymonds turned up in the records, but no others of the right age and matching the description."

"Two years older than William," she mused. "And--" she turned back to the previous page of the printed report--"twenty-three when he had his first psychotic incident."

"The first one severe enough to come to anyone's attention, at any rate," Cowley said. "There may have been small incidents previously, but nothing to alarm anyone, including Doyle himself. He went through a wild stage in his teens, but had pulled himself together. A goodly number of meritorious reports from his superiors in the Met. He might, indeed, have eventually come to my attention as a possible recruit for CI5 if this problem had not developed."

"Brought on by trauma," she said, handing the report back to Cowley. "A shooting incident in which his partner was killed."

"Aye. Dr Ross informs me that this type of psychosis is often triggered by just such a traumatic experience in early adulthood."

"So there's no doubt this young man is William's Ray. Another one without any family to speak of."

"None willing to take responsibility for him, at any rate, it appears." Cowley shook his head. "He can apparently be quite difficult to handle: very independent and with a tendency to a hot temper if anyone tries to restrict his movements or thwart him in any way. The very behaviours that got him into trouble as a youth have apparently resurfaced, though in an even wilder form. His family, having been through it once, perhaps understandably have no interest in taking on the responsibility for the rest of his life--if, indeed, Doyle himself would accept their help. The lad's as much on his own as Bodie, and just as restless, it seems.

"Since being released from hospital, he's been in several group-homes, but has never managed to settle in any. For the past two years, he's been living on his own in unknown conditions. The authorities have lost track of him. Without an address, he's not even been getting his pension cheques. As he wasn't in the force for long, they don't amount to much, but they are funds due to him."

Elizabeth handed the papers back to him. "At least William has the money from his disability pension that Iain has been banking for him." She shook her head. "Though the boy is hardly capable of managing it. I don't think he even recalls that he has an income most of the time, or understands what it means. As long as he's got enough for food and a few treats, and a new pair of shoes if he needs them, he's happy.

"George, I just don't know what's going to happen to that lad. Now that we know for certain Iain won't ever be _compos mentis_ again, William's situation has become a matter of urgency."

:::::::

Doyle slept hard that night in Bodie's protective arms, the way Doyle did when he'd fought Them fiercely and won. The next morning, he woke up cross and rubbing his head and pushing Bodie away when all he wanted to do was keep Doyle close so nobody, not Them or anybody else, could slip past him to attack Doyle again.

But Doyle had his own ideas of how he wanted to spend the day, which didn't include, he told Bodie tartly, being pinioned in his tentacle arms. Bodie didn't understand all of Doyle's words, as often happened, but he had no trouble getting the meaning of them. He stepped away, just a couple of feet, to give Doyle the room he needed, and he wasn't pouting, whatever Doyle said; or, at least, he didn't mean to. He couldn't control what his lips did every single second, could he? 'course he couldn't.

**Author's Note:**

>  _The Red Cross Knight...._ is from Edmund Spenser's _The Faerie Queene, Book 1_.


End file.
